The Mistakes We Make
by Drakkenfyre
Summary: A chance meeting between ambitious reporter Liz Holden and Jim Brass leads to friendship, but is it also racing towards tragedy when a witness's identity is revealed?
1. The Mistakes We Make, chapter 1

CSI and its characters belong to JBP and Alliance/Atlantis.

Acknowledgements: I couldn't figure out how to word this, Heidi and Peggie, but maybe a simple thanks will suffice. You are two amazing people and between Heidi's encouragement and Peggie's wealth of knowledge and advice, this story (and my own writing) has greatly improved. Thank you both.

And to J, who has inspired me with her own works. And who has not hesitated to pull out the cattle prod when I've needed, well, prodding. ;)

And of course, to Svartormr. Your shoulder rubs and willingness to give advice from the male perspective were both invaluable. As is your constant, unfailing patience with me.

Note: This is still a work in progress.

This CSI fanfic is devoted to my favourite underdeveloped character on that show, Jim Brass. Please review and make any suggestions that you think might make this story better. I have a real thirst for comments in this department.

**The Mistakes We Make**

**Chapter 1**

It was my secret guilty pleasure, I said to the man in front of me.

That was how we met, at McDonald's. I was always embarrassed to be seen going in there, but that time I ended up in line behind a broad-shouldered man who smelled of soap and something spicy. It didn't seem to fit him—and as I later discovered it didn't, but he had just investigated a robbery in a Punjabi restaurant and felt he needed something utterly plain to settle his stomach. However, the contradiction intrigued me.

Now, usually when I speak to people in line they just ignore me, but he turned around and answered back.

"Your secret guilty pleasure?" he said in a low and quiet voice. "So what's your not-so-secret guilty pleasure?"

Taken in as I was by his powerful baritone voice, I responded before thinking: "Why don't we go have a coffee and maybe you'll find out."

He countered, "Why don't we just grab a real meal somewhere? I mean, we're adults, why stay here when we can eat where the grown-ups eat?"

I felt pulled to him, even at that early juncture, so I decided to take him up on his offer. If I had known then what grief this chance meeting would bring, I would have stopped it. But there was nothing about that moment that didn't seem completely right.

So we walked across the street to a small Italian restaurant, one of those family deals that neither of us had been to before. Along the way he introduced himself as Jim, originally from New Jersey.

"Why did you come to Las Vegas?" I asked.

"Why does anyone ever come here? To start something new. Get away from the old. But you probably know about that. What brings you here?"

I told him it wasn't the Vegas that most people thought about, with the neon and glamour, but the real Vegas, with the arid beauty and quiet suburbs that appealed to me. He turned his head and thought for a moment, and I think he understood the things I see in the land. In any case, while most wouldn't consider him traditionally handsome, I didn't mind taking that opportunity to steal a few glances as we walked.

When we reached the restaurant, we ordered and then talked about the weather and local politics, which disappointed me, because our first words were so charged. But I got another glimpse of his fire as soon as the food arrived.

"I can't believe they serve this crap!" Jim said after his first bite.

I was a little taken aback, but his words didn't seem all that angry, and they weren't directed at me, so I waited for his explanation.

"Back in Jersey, they'd never dream of serving cannelloni like this. The filling would be entirely homemade. This is from frozen. No competition—it makes them lazy out here."

I reached across with my fork and took a piece. Tasting it, I said, "Tastes fine to me, but then again, I think there are seventeen different ways to serve mac and cheese."

"Oh, where'd you go to school?" he asked.

I was shocked by how very perceptive he was, especially since he didn't even appear to be paying all that much attention.

"Davis," I replied. "English lit. You?"

"Seton Hall, history."

I was impressed. I had once considered becoming a history major, but I thought my job prospects would be pretty dismal afterwards. But from the light wool of his suit and the excellent quality of his shoes, he seemed to be doing all right.

"Well, try my lasagna," I said.

"No, forget it," he admonished.

"No seriously," I fought back, "just try it. You never know, you might like it."

He shook his head at my not-so-subtle message. Then he cocked his head to the side and suddenly slipped my plate out from under my descending fork.

"Thanks," he said as he began eating my meal. "Much better than mine."

All I could do was laugh.

Unfortunately, our meal ended too soon. We had a small disagreement over payment, with my preference being to go Dutch, but I soon learned that trying to win an argument with Jim was like trying to talk a cop out of giving you a ticket.

When I went to pull out my wallet, he put a hand on my arm to stop me. I stalled a moment, enjoying the thrill of his touch on my bare skin, before saying, "We just met. You shouldn't have to pay for someone you don't even know."

"Well, I'd like to think I know you, at least a bit," he said, looking at me, then looking away. I acquiesced.

So we walked back to our cars and stood there a moment in awkward silence as the traffic sped by.

"Well, I had a nice time—" he said, before I interrupted.

"Don't think me too forward, but I'd like it if you came over later tonight to catch a movie or something."

"What do you mean? Go out or stay in?"

"Um, I hadn't really decided. Probably out, if there's anything good playing," I said, thinking it was obvious I didn't do this often.

"I don't know if that's a very good idea," he said. I must have looked crestfallen, because he quickly finished with, "Because I work nights. This was my lunch break." He quickly glanced at his watch. "I've already been away too long."

"Well, with my job I keep my own hours. You could be off at three a.m. and I wouldn't mind."

"It might come to that. Besides, I can't think of anyplace around here that shows movies that late."

I was growing frustrated, because it seemed he was either indecisive or trying to find a way to blow me off. Or maybe he was just nervous.

"Oh, you're just being difficult. Give me your number and I'll call you after midnight. You'll have a better idea then, right?"

"Yeah. I'm out of cards again, so I'll write it on the receipt. It's my cell, so I'll be on it until about six. Uh, if you don't feel like calling me tonight, you can reach me . . ."

"Oh, for God's sake," I said as I grabbed the paper out of his hands and walked away, shaking my head, but smiling. I hesitated for a moment, then turned to look back. Jim was still standing there, watching me go.

I knew the rule was I wasn't supposed to call the same night. I know I was supposed to play it cool, but I've never been that sort of person. I called him that night, at a quarter past one.

"Hi, Jim?" I asked.

"Yeah. Who . . . is this Elizabeth? I didn't think you'd call."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about Vegas girls," I deadpanned. "No, I just had a great time today and was wondering if you were up for anything after work."

He paused for a moment too long and I was certain he was going to make some excuse or flat-out say no, when he said, "Yeah, sure. What do you want to do, catch breakfast or something?"

"I have a better idea. You come to my place, bring the movie and the beer and I'll make you a real supper."

"A movie? But it'll be morning."

"No, it will be your night. Oh, and make it something historical."

So that morning, at three a.m., Jim knocked on my apartment door. As I opened it, he held out a video and a six-pack in offering. I gestured him in.

Inside, I watched him as he quickly analyzed my home. He looked as though he wanted to make some comment, though I'm not sure on what.

Interrupting his scrutiny, I said, "Come on back to the kitchen, I've made chili."

"Oh no," he said, stopping. "I hate kidney beans."

"No, you won't find a single one. It's my mother's recipe. Like my father's only none of those awful kidney beans."

He laughed. "You're not serious. You hate kidney beans, too? Okay, I'll give it a try—never know, I might like it."

He ate largely in silence, allowing me a chance to talk to my heart's content about all the strange people who lived in my building. The woman with the broken hip and the herd of cats. The old German man who recounts fondly his days in the Hitler Youth. The annoying alcoholic next door . . .

He stiffened at that comment. I quickly moved on to say that my favourite was the man with schizophrenia two doors down. I mentioned that this made me wonder if there was something wrong with me.

"No," he said. "My best friend—some days I wonder if he's brilliant, or just crazy."

I laughed at this and the awkwardness between us passed quickly. I asked what he rented and he said, "_Amistad_. It was historical . . . and it was pretty much all that was left at the movie store that late."

"Well, you grab a couple cans out of the fridge and I'll pop the movie in," I said.

So we sat on the couch, but neither of us seemed particularly interested in starting up the movie. Instead, I started my beer and asked him about Jersey. At first, it was just the standard when you were a kid stuff, but after the third can for each of us, he started talking about the riots.

"I was in high school when they happened," he said, "but I'd never seen anything like it. So much anger and violence, and at the time I couldn't figure out why. Really, I still don't have a good reason for you, because considering how many people died and how much of that neighbourhood was destroyed, I don't know what the hell anyone was thinking. I guess they just weren't, mob mentality all that. But it really did change me. I wanted to see justice done. I was a lot more idealistic in those days."

"Weren't we all?" I said.

"Yeah. You know, I was married once."

"Oh no, this sounds like a scotch story."

"It certainly is," he said, "and you don't even know the half of it."

I poured him one and he continued.

"I have a daughter, Ellie. Well, she is my daughter, but she isn't. I mean, I'm her father, but my wife wasn't the most faithful person, if you get my meaning."

"Yeah, she's your daughter by the milkman. Gotcha."

"But for all the trouble, you'd think I was the bad guy. She barely knows me from the guy next door and she's headed down a bad path."

"That's terrible," I said. "If it helps, I was into some pretty troublesome stuff when I was younger, but I used a lot of what I learned to get through college. I don't see it as a complete waste."

"Yeah, maybe that'll happen."

At that point, Jim stopped talking and just stared into his glass. I hadn't meant to dredge up the past, but I just couldn't help myself. Finally, he closed his eyes and leaned back into the couch.

"You all right?" I asked.

"Yeah, just a little buzzed," he said.

I didn't believe him. I mean, at that point I was worried I'd started to slur my words, but by the ease with which he swallowed neat scotch, I thought he could handle a drink or two. But instead of making him a coffee like I should have, I did something rash. I mean, there was just something about him that I saw as he laid back with his eyes closed. The sort of thing I wouldn't mind waking up next to.

I leaned over against him and rested my head on his chest, tucking my arms against his side. His warmth seeped into me as I listened to his heart's steady rhythm and enjoyed the faint scent of his cologne. Still, I didn't dare make more contact with his body, because I knew I was taking too many liberties as it was. I couldn't gauge his reaction; I don't know what expression he got on his face, or even if he opened his eyes, because I never looked up. I just curled up into a ball and eventually fell asleep.

When I awoke, he was gone. There was a note on the coffee table:

_I just got paged, have to run into work. Call me later._

_ —Jim_

Brief, to the point, not overtly emotional. Very Jim, as I would learn. Only problem was, I could have used some emotion from him at that point. I mean, I thought we had some sort of connection the previous night. I still found it hard to read him.

It was late, and I had to get to work. Life as a freelance journalist was precarious at best. That fascist little editor at the daily I was hoping to join had finally given me an assignment—cover a funeral of a local academic poet—and I wanted to expand my notes and look up some more details while the event was fresh in my mind. I was so engrossed that I almost didn't hear the phone ringing.

"What?" I tersely said.

"Whoa, don't bite my head off. I guess you got up on the wrong side of the . . . couch."

It was Jim, but I wasn't in as playful a mood as he was.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Well . . . you just looked so peaceful lying there, I didn't want to disturb you."

That comment robbed me of all the anger I'd built up over the day.

"Thanks," was all I said.

"Anyway, I'll be really busy tonight and tomorrow, have to get my beauty sleep you know . . ."

I tried not to snort, but it just heightened the effect.

"Oh, just because you don't have to work at it doesn't mean you can't have some pity on those of us who do. Anyway, do you want to actually go see a movie Thursday night?"

I was certain there was a compliment buried in there somewhere, so my answer was of course a quick yes.

Two days I worked long hours to finish my article and the time sped by until it was Thursday. I allowed myself to lounge about in bed until rather late, thoughts filled with this strange and brusque man I met only a few days earlier. His roughness aroused me and his intelligence and education—as much as he tried to hide them—intrigued me.

I should have spent the day shopping for a new outfit. My closet was filled with clothes suitable for business meetings or chasing down leads, but not for a date. The dresser was even less help, until I found a simple black skirt rolled up in a corner. I brushed off the dust, matched it with a blouse, and hurried to the kitchen.

Before he arrived, I had planned to search through the newspapers for movies and showtimes. This idea was abandoned when I realized I hadn't swept aside the assorted empty liquor bottles from my counter for well over two weeks. I had a feeling Jim would be sensitive to that sort of detail. Just as I finished, the doorbell rang.

Jim stood leaning against the doorframe, smiling. "Keeping out of trouble today?"

I smiled back. "Kind of busy—how about you?"

"Finished off something from a few months back. Came out the way I thought it would, too."

He ushered me out to his car, holding open the door for me. His car interior was cleaner than that of the last man I dated, almost as if someone had gone over it with a fine-toothed comb.

"So, Liz, what do you want to see?"

"I was thinking we could pop by the Regent and see what's playing. It's not too far away and there's always something interesting on."

Jim drove with confidence and a little fast, but with great skill. I watched out the window as we slipped away from the tightly bunched condos of my neighbourhood. Their stucco and fenced-in stone patios were replaced with the barren-bordered flatness of a main drag. I spent the time between admiring the city as we sped through it. I wished I had something to say to break the silence, but neither of us seemed willing to take that step.

Finally we pulled into the lot of the Regent and hurried through the oppressive heat to the doors. He guided me through first with a hand on the small of my back. I turned to smile at him, but noticed that his face had turned dour as he looked at the list of movies.

"Well, at least we came at the right time," he said.

Even I had to admit the choices that week were somewhat limited. I listed them off.

"It looks like we have three choices. The first one is another of those 'good cop struggling against corruption and loses everyth...'"

He cut in: "No way. I exercise my veto on that one."

"And I refuse to waste time on a movie about New York City dog walkers. Anything that describes itself as 'uproariously funny', generally isn't."

"That only leaves something called 'Uno Ben Armato'," he said.

"We may as well broaden our minds and see the Italian one," I said, with a shrug. "Besides, it's probably dubbed."

We soon sat at the back of the nearly-empty theatre and waited for the show to begin.

"You sure you don't want anything?" he said as he shifted in his seat.

"No, but if I change my mind, I'll steal some of your popcorn."

I didn't know what he was really feeling, but he was certainly acting suspicious. Or at least like a schoolboy on a first date, but both of us were far too old for that sort of behaviour. I asked him about it.

"Is anything wrong?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes widened slightly and I think his cheeks might have reddened, but he shook his head in a vigorous 'no'. To add to this, he said, "Of course not."

"Thou doth protest too much," I countered.

"Oh," he exclaimed, "tell me you're not one of those Shakespeare nuts. Do you know just how much that man bent the truth to suit his needs?"

"Certainly, from a historian's viewpoint that's valid, but from a literary stance, it's perfectly acceptable," I defended, probably a little too aggressively. Then I did something I rarely do: backed off the slightest amount. Gave the other person breathing room.

"Of course," I said, "in terms of literary theory, most of his writings are no longer useful to study, except from a historical angle. We've moved beyond Elizabethan-era techniques."

"One would certainly hope," he teased, with a downright Shakespearian double meaning.

Just then, the lights dimmed and the movie began with a minimal of previews, as is common in the less commercial venues.

Jim whispered in my ear, "Oh come on, subtitled promos? Why did we have to come see an art-house flick, anyway? There are plenty of normal movies playing in this town. Maybe something with explosions?"

I elbowed him in the ribs and his light-hearted complaining quickly changed to chuckling.

In any case, my mind probably wasn't as focused on the movie as it should have been. Throughout the movie, I kept stealing glances at him, hopefully subtly. But Jim's a perceptive man, so he most likely knew.

Well, I could steal as many glances as I liked; I mean, there was nothing acknowledged between us then. Besides, there's only so much that can go wrong in the space of a two-hour movie. Even a very bad one, as this was turning out to be.

By the time I realized it was a dud, the young Italian protagonist was trying to win back the affections of his wife—and his mistress. Apparently, this was best done by chasing his wife around his apartment in the buff. Something must have been lost in the translation, but at least the visuals weren't half-bad. And there's certainly something to be said for love scenes that aren't encumbered by intelligible dialogue.

As the scene continued on, I peeked across at Jim, who was by now engrossed in the movie. I didn't blame him, it was certainly a heated scene. But he actually appeared interested, which differed from his normal façade of bland indifference. The one beneath which something was hidden, though I wasn't certain what.

After a time, the scene was wearing on my defenses and I was beginning to feel thankful that I possessed a female anatomy, as I could keep my growing embarrassment hidden. Anyhow, it had become overly hot in the theatre for me and I reached to steal some of Jim's drink. Only, I was so involved in the movie, I had not seen that his hand was already on it.

My fingers touched the rough backs of his—strange, it seemed, for someone who didn't strike me as a manual labourer—but they were warm and he didn't flinch or pull away when I touched them. Instead, he looked at me and saw my embarrassment at the mistake. Giving a small smile, opened his hand to let his fingers slip between mine and away, leaving my hand alone on the cold drink. It certainly was getting hot in there.

On the ride home, we joked about how horrendous the movie was.

"Why was the wife so willing to forgive the mistress?" he said. "In her place, I would have been furious."

I looked at him and saw there wasn't much humour in his face at that moment. I tried to change the subject.

"Maybe the two of them were having a fling on the side as revenge," I said.

"Oh yeah, like that would bother a man."

"I don't think they would be doing it for the man. Because of the man. In spite of the man, sure, but who says a woman needs a man to have fun?"

At that moment, he scrunched up his face, like he had smelled something foul. I thought it was rather cute and I began to giggle. Then he started chuckling, from somewhere deep in his belly, and soon the car was filled with laughter.

It was just the perfect moment. I stretched out my arm and made contact. My fingertips caressed the back of his head, meandering through his hair, and occasionally wandering out to his ears.

He interrupted me: "Liz, you have to stop."

I was shocked, and froze in mid-movement. "What? Why?"

"I'm going to crash the car if you keep that up. Although I'm prepared to risk it . . ."

"Okay, okay," I cut in.

Instead of pulling back, however, I let my arm rest across his shoulders. He didn't seem to mind.

All too soon we were back at my apartment building. I told him he didn't need to walk me all the way up; he nodded in mock solemnity, and escorted me anyway. At the top of the stairs, he held the door open for me. I didn't expect this sort of behaviour from Jim, but I was certainly flattered by it.

Finally, by the door, I told him I had a wonderful time and that I wished I didn't have a meeting first thing in the morning.

"Yeah," he replied, "me too. I really enjoyed our talk the other night. I got a lot off my chest that had been sitting there for a long time."

I reached up and fingered his lapels, feeling the texture of the fine wool, before looking up hopefully.

Without a word, he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to mine. I reached my hands into his jacket and rested them on the curve in his back, pulling him to me.

He groaned into my mouth, which was the opportunity I needed to snake my tongue out to caress his lips. Soon, things were progressing from warm to hot, very quickly.

A loud thump resounded though the hall as I pushed him against the door. Breathing heavily, he cupped a hand under my bottom and held me to him. All sense of decorum was thrown aside, until I happened to look over his shoulder.

My ancient, white-haired neighbour was leaning out her door and staring at us in our compromised position.

I managed to rasp a warning to Jim, before the woman began her tirade.

"You know, in my day, we had a few words for people like you," she screeched in her dry voice. "Get a room!"

She slammed her door shut leaving Jim and I smiling at each other in embarrassment.

"Someone should handcuff that woman to her rocking chair," Jim said. "I'd volunteer, but I kind of need mine."

"Your what?" I asked.

"Handcuffs."

I was shocked, though not in an entirely unpleasant way.

Mind racing through the possibilities, I asked, "Not that I'm complaining, but why do you own handcuffs?"

He shook his head at me.

"You're really something, you know that?" he said. Then, the fog seemed to lift from his eyes, which quickly darted from side to side. "Oh yeah, you have to work in the morning."

"Um, yeah, work. How about after your shift tomorrow?" I asked.

"Sounds good," he said, grinning.

Before we could get into any more trouble, I ducked inside my apartment. I knew that within hours, everyone in my building would have heard about the incident. I sighed. It was still worth it.

In the next chapter: Plot. Real plot. With crimes and blood and stuff.


	2. The Mistakes We Make, chapter 2

CSI and its characters still belong to JBP and Alliance/Atlantis. No infringement is intended.

**The Mistakes We Make**

**Chapter 2**

Late the next morning, sun baking the pavement, I pulled into the lot of the Chronicle and walked into the air-conditioned lobby. It was an oasis of plastic tropical plants and electrically powered waterfalls gushing over faux stones. The receptionist sat behind the front counter, shielded by Plexiglas, but probably wondering why her employers wouldn't spring for bulletproof glass. With some of the things they print in the Chronicle, I'd certainly want it.

You know, I thought freelancing was going to be a lot more glamourous than this, but it pays the bills.

"I'm here to see Mr. Hutchings," I announced.

Upstairs, I was ushered into Hutchings's office. His shelves were covered in awards from the numerous back-scratching organizations that journalists love. I sat and waited as he finished an excited phone conversation.

"Hey Liz," he said, feeling he could use the familiar immediately. "I've reviewed your portfolio. Good stuff. I need you to cover the new safe injection site on Pemberton Avenue. I want a feature on it, but if you can hunt down anything interesting that's happening, cover it. We're always looking for fresh newsies."

I guess I shouldn't have let this not-so-subtle hint go to my head, but I was determined to prove myself. My ambition would ultimately be my downfall.

On the way home from poring over the Chronicle's reference libraries, I scouted out the site, but was disappointed that it looked so innocuous in the fading daylight. Just a house on the outskirts of a mediocre neighbourhood. There would be more people there later on, of course. I certainly wasn't prepared for interviews at that early a juncture, but I wanted to get a feel for this end of town, to understand the people I would be talking to.

It must have been very comfortable in its day, which I assume was in the 50s, as the long lawns stretched to tree-lined avenues. Unfortunately, broken limbs hung down into the street and many of the walkway stones were missing or broken MJH change "broken" to "fractured". Looking farther back, the siding on these once-proud houses was cracking where the paint had peeled. Everywhere I looked I saw decay. I could see why a neighbourhood like this would be chosen for a safe injection house: not only was there probably a fair dose of drug use here, but the property values would be low enough that the house could be purchased for a song. A Vegas song, at least, which always had a price but never went too cheap.

The ever-present sirens moved from simple background noise to a present reminder to pull over to the side of the road. I could feel the officers' adrenaline as they sped past in their cruiser. I could not help but follow in their wake, though at a discreet distance.

I pulled over the instant I saw the police stop. Grabbing my tape recorder, notebook, and digital camera, I briskly closed the distance between myself and the crime scene. The deputies were cautiously entering a house with guns drawn, opening the door that was left unlocked. I started snapping pictures from my vantage point, hidden behind a tree.

There was no noise coming from the house, save the occasional muted shout of "Police!" Until the sound of boots hitting hardwood, as the cops ran out of the house and one promptly vomited into the bushes. It was only a few minutes later that more police and an ambulance and then the coroner's van arrived. The blue starkness of that vehicle always signaled one thing: death.

So as I waited for the big guns to arrive, I interviewed a few people in the surrounding throng of rubberneckers. Most had little idea as to what had happened, only that the people who lived there were big users, probably of the hard stuff. Another identified herself as the person who found a note on the front door that said, simply, "Call police."

Just then, I looked over my shoulder to see the arrival of the second wave. They pulled up in cruisers and trucks and were welcomed under the tape. Some with kits and others with notepads and still another that looked strangely familiar. Tossing this thought aside, I quickly photographed the new arrivals, two of which wore blue jackets proudly emblazoned with the word "Forensics". The third, who I assumed to be a detective, was finally within my field of view when I nearly dropped my camera into the dry grass. It couldn't be…

It was Jim. He was a cop.

Well, it's not like I actually asked him what he did for a living. I mean, that sort of thing didn't seem to matter at the time and it would have been a little tacky to grill him on it. Mind you, there were the handcuffs.

I watched him from a discreet distance, noticing the differences between the Jim I knew, relaxed and playful, and his workplace persona, darker and more commanding. He was all business and fit completely into the sober situation. Initially, he surveyed the scene, though for what details I'm not certain. While the uniforms milled around him and the forensics people quickly ducked into the house, Jim scanned slowly from one detail to another, in a complete circle around himself. As he looked towards me, I quickly squeezed tight behind another dry trunk, bark imprinting itself into my shoulder. A moment later I peeked out to see he had moved on to examining the crowd of bystanders. I snapped a few pictures of the crowd, then in a moment of whimsy, I took one of Jim. Just in case.

When he was finished his survey, he turned his back to the throng and, head bowed, marched inside the house. I didn't see him after that.

The deputies didn't reveal much to me, no matter how I prodded. I could never figure out how some reporters managed to wrangle the most revealing details out of their 'sources inside the department,' but I always had my suspicions. I was determined to never be one of those people who slept with others in order to get insider information.

Frustrated, but with plenty of material to work with, I returned to my car.

Finally at home, I was exhausted from my day, but I pushed myself to produce some copy on what I'd seen. After firing off an e-mail with my story to Hutchings, I made the mistake of lying on the couch a moment to rest my eyes. I promptly fell asleep.

At a quarter-past midnight, the phone rang.

"Liz, it's me, Jim. Something's come up here at work. Something bad. I'm not going to be able to come over after."

I was worried. It had to be about that case today and the awful things that made the deputies sick. If it was enough to shake him like this, what business did he have going home alone?

"Why, what happened?" I asked.

"It's complicated. Look, I'm just gonna go and I'll give you a call later."

"Not so fast, Jim. You sound like shit. Come over after your shift and you can talk about it."

"No, Liz, I just need to be alone."

"Alone… with your bottle?" I raged. "Yeah, that'll solve a lot. Jesus Jim, I'm here for you. Take advantage of it."

"I can't… I can't stay for long, okay? I'll be by at about three," he said, before hanging up.

At twenty after three, he rang my doorbell. I suddenly realized that we never went to his apartment or house or whatever. In fact, I didn't really know anything about his current life, only about the ghosts of his past. That's a lot to know, but those aren't the sorts of things you learn about a person until much later—unless your current life is something you'd rather not discuss.

Anyway, I opened the door and ushered him in. He looked worse than he sounded on the phone, with his jacket hanging open and his hair mussed. Not very much like himself at all. Or maybe more himself than I realized.

He shrugged out of his jacket, which I took from him and hung by the door. Then, while I watched, he pulled the gun holster and handcuff case off his belt. He held them in his hands a moment, looking at them and seeming to measure their weight. Searching the room for a place to put his policeman's tools, he finally kicked off his shoes and put them inside. I didn't say a word, only guided him with a hand at his back to the couch.

"You off-duty?" I asked after walking to the kitchen.

"Bourbon, if you've got it," he grunted.

Okay, so I didn't want him to drink alone, but that didn't mean he couldn't with me. That's lush logic for you.

So with the drinks poured and the bottle in tow, I settled onto the couch beside Jim. He didn't even look at me, he was so absorbed in some other world that he could not tear his mind's eye from. Instead, he swigged the whole double at once and collapsed back against the couch, facing me but not looking me in the eye.

"Jim, what happened?" I asked, quietly.

"I guess you've figured out by now that I'm a cop."

_Yes, though before you knew it. _

"Well," he continued, "there was this murder today, kind of like every day in this town, except that this guy took extra care to make sure this one suffered. You know, I can understand killing someone in the heat of the moment, but something like this I just don't get. It doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah, you'd think if it was business they'd just kill them and be done with it, right?"

"Yeah."

If he had anything else to say, it wasn't forthcoming. So we sat in silence and had another drink each. I watched him as he thought about the things he had seen, whatever horrors they held. And mystery, because death is a very mysterious thing. Filled with the unanswered questions people like Jim strive to answer, the questions the families always have that the police can never answer. Even the basic questions as to the nature of life and death and what marks the fine line between too much blood lost or too much pain and the release that is death. Questions no one could answer, but that many like him spend their lives digging through terrible events in search of.

What could I say to take away his pain?

I reached out my hand and softly touched his cheek.

There was nothing I could say, nothing that would let him know he was still alive.

His eyes closed and his face relaxed, removing so much of the pain and the age that had accumulated on it throughout the day. My hand moved behind his head to caress the back of his neck. This time, with no car to drive or neighbour to spy, he gave in to the sensations and a small groan escaped his lips.

We carried on like this for a time, until suddenly his eyes flashed open, looking at me with an intensity I didn't know he possessed. Jim reached his large hands behind me and roughly pulled me to him and on top as he leaned back into the cushions of the couch.

He pushed his hand up the back of my blouse as I kissed his neck and I tried to grunt a warning that possibly we should take this to my bedroom. But that never made it past my lips and soon we were a flurry of passionate kisses and fingers working furiously to undo buttons and remove clothing.

His face looked strained, like some great pain lay just beneath the surface, even when he rolled me over and entered me. As we furiously mingled, I sensed he would soon be nearing completion, so I reached a hand between us to finger my release. Soon I was whimpering, but he continued on his self-exorcism, until he finally gave a yell of anguish and pleasure and collapsed to his elbows above me.

I stroked his back as he rested his head in the crook of my neck.

"Jim," I said, "come to bed."

This time when I awoke, he was still there, cradled in my arms. I slipped out of bed for a glass of water and when I returned, he was awake and staring at the ceiling.

"Case still bothering you?" I asked as I slipped back into bed.

"Yeah."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I think so," he said, as he wrapped his strong arms around me. "It was a drug debt, we think. He did some pretty terrible things to that woman, but that's not the part that's bothering me."

"It's not? What is it?"

"He… the daughter, she's nine, was hiding in the closet the entire time. Saw the whole thing."

"Oh," I gasped. "That's terrible."

"We don't know if she'll be able to testify. When a thing like this happens to a kid, something breaks inside them. They're never quite right after. I don't know if I want to contribute to the trauma she's already gone through. I just don't know if it's worth it."

He grew silent and finally we fell asleep in each other's arms.

Coming soon in the next chapter: Breakfast. More plot.


	3. The Mistakes We Make, chapter 3

CSI and its characters still belong to JBP and Alliance/Atlantis.

Note: I'm very sorry it took this long between updates. Thanks to all the amazing people who offered encouragement throughout this process. You rock :D

**The Mistakes We Make**

**Chapter 3**

The sun's afternoon intrusions into the bedroom woke me and I found myself being spooned by Jim's sleeping form. Rolling over, I was reluctant to move away from the warmth he brought to my bed, but I couldn't resist this opportunity to watch him in slumber. Even with his round face crushed into the pillow, he had a certain dignity attached to his well-worn features. Their coarseness was decidedly masculine and spoke of years of experience endured. However, his brow was far smoother in sleep than when awake and marred by the intense stresses he is subjected to in his line of work. From his round chin, now showing a day's growth, to his lips, no longer drawn thin with concern, his face held a hundred points of interest that I could dwell on indefinitely.

Yet in a way, something was lost. If you looked just at his physical features, some would say Jim was a plain man. But he was so animated and passionate at all times you would not notice this about him if you did not catch him at rest.

Too soon, he shifted and opened his eyes lazily.

"Hey there," he said. "How long have you been watching me like that?"

"Not long enough," I said, and I meant it. At that point, I think I could have watched him all afternoon. Instead, I said, "There are towels in the bathroom if you feel like having a shower. I'm going to go get breakfast started."

As I pulled away, he put his hand on my arm to stop me.

"Thanks," he said, "for last night. For everything."

His lips were warm as they pressed against mine and I couldn't imagine anywhere I'd rather be . . . until my stomach growled loudly.

"And you let me believe this breakfast thing was for my benefit," he joked.

I smacked him playfully on the thigh before finally slipping away.

In the kitchen, I was enjoying the heat of the stove against my skin and skimming the Chronicle's news section. I had just discovered that my story was on page two when Jim padded into the kitchen. His bare feet slapped against the linoleum, bringing him to press against my back. I was about to turn and tell him the good news, when he easily slipped his arms around my waist. His wet hair tickled my ear as he kissed my neck and I could already feel a bulge press against my bottom. Soon all work-related concerns were forgotten.

"Jim!" I chastised. "I'm trying to make breakfast. You do want to eat, don't you?"

He mumbled an affirmative into the skin on my shoulder as he nudged my robe aside. Gently placing a trail of kisses down my chest, he pulled my robe open and teased my nipple with his tongue. I tried to protest, something about a stove and fire trucks, so he reached across, shut off the burner, and spun me towards him.

"Liz, I don't know how the hell you do this to me," he said with gravel in his voice.

I could feel the reverberation of his deep and masculine voice through the thin fabric of his shirt, my bare chest against his clothed. I desperately needed to feel his skin against mine, so I quickly unfastened buttons while our tongues clashed wetly against each other's teeth.

Which, of course, was when the phone rang.

He paused, but I carried on as if I hadn't heard it. Until my machine picked up and I heard the voice of my editor.

"Liz? Liz, you there? You need to come in for a meeting, pronto. I'll be in my office for another ten minutes, so call me here."

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed.

Jim furrowed his brow and tilted his head at me.

"I mean, 'wonderful' in the less-than-wonderful sense. I, oh Jim, I have to go."

He sighed and released me. I promised to make it up to him as soon as possible.

"Sooner, rather than later?" he said.

I nodded, vigorously.

This time at the Chronicle offices, I was allowed to show myself up to the production floor. It had a certain intangible tingle of energy, the kind you can only get when working with these kinds of deadlines. I spotted Hutchings, who was conversing with two younger staffers. He waved me over for an introduction.

"Joanna, Ben, this is Liz. She's covering the Cadden drug murder over on the east side."

"Pleased to meet you," said Joanna, extending her hand and smiling warmly.

Since Hutchings had already ducked away, Ben barely acknowledged my existence. He grunted and headed back to the fax machine. I asked Joanna if newcomers weren't welcome around here.

"No, that's just Ben. He's a little mad that you got page two so soon in your tenure. We are a competitive bunch around here, but I try not to let it get to me. I mean, we all knew what we were getting into when we signed up, but I don't know how some people let this job eat them, you know what I mean?"

I nodded an affirmative.

"All you have to do," she advised, "is impress Hutch early on. Then you're set. That's what I did, and I've been here going on 5 years. An eternity in this biz."

I smiled and thanked her and strode into Mr. Hutchings' office.

"So, you've gotten acquainted with my newsies, eh Liz? They're a good bunch, very driven. I see that in you, too, you know.

"Now, I already like that you've shown initiative and probably a bit of luck with this drug murder, but I need you to run with it. It was nice that you got the story you did, but I need more. Understand? By eight o'clock. I've assigned a photog, so drop by their desk on your way out."

I couldn't believe he'd give me such a short deadline, considering copy on something this hot didn't need to be in until at least midnight. But I was so awed and desperate to prove I could be one of them that I just went along with it. After giving the pertinent details to the photography desk, I waved an abbreviated good-bye to my acquaintances in the news department.

I rushed out of the offices, hopped into my car, and was soon back at the scene of the crime. It was strangely deserted now, so different from the activity of the place right after the event. Thankfully, Jim was nowhere to be seen, and I began my work.

Ten cold calls to the neighbours later, I had a lot of public opinion, but no facts. Nothing substantive, aside from the usual, "My friend's sister's cat saw a man who looked suspicious," so I decided to go hit City Hall before the records department closed.

The property taxes were paid by a man named Rajinder, so I assumed that the house was a rental. I found his company's phone number in the corporate directory and soon discovered out that the Caddens were recent transplants from California, looking for a better life than they could get in the gang-plagued low-income neighbourhoods of Los Angeles. Raj also mentioned that there was surviving family somewhere in the city, though he didn't know where. While I was relieved that the little girl had somewhere to stay instead of Child and Family Services, I didn't know where they could be, so I suddenly found myself at a dead end. Reviewing my notes, I saw I had no useful quotes, no eyewitness accounts, and no police statements. The best thing I had collected on the whole damn case was my photos, and that wasn't even my department. Of course, I hadn't considered actually asking Jim for a comment. However, as soon as I had that thought, I forced it from my mind. I didn't want to mix work and real life and I most certainly didn't want to put Jim in an uncomfortable position. I'd just have to make due with what I had.

Instead of heading home, I decided to work on one of the terminals at the Chronicle, so I could glean some guidance from Mr. Hutchings and his newsies. They might hate me by the end of the night, but I was intent on producing quality copy for the morning edition. Something that would really show that I deserved a staff position.

On the way in, I passed by Joanna who waved her good-nights.

"Leaving so soon?" I asked.

"Of course!" she replied, jovially. "It's one of the perks of working for the Chronicle. Earlier nights than most other dailies."

I was confused. "What about breaking stories? A lot happens here at night."

She smiled. "It's not like any of us here are chasing Pulitzer illusions. It's just a job, like any other. If anything happens, we'll just report the next production day. Low stress."

"Well, as low as you can get in this industry, right?" I asked.

Joanna just smiled and waved good-bye.

I was studiously typing away when Hutchings tapped on my shoulder.

"How's the story coming?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"I've got about nine hundred words for the followup for you," I said.

He frowned. "I was thinking bigger. About half a page, fifteen-hundred-odd words, hon."

I was shocked. Fifteen hundred seemed far too much space to fill with the material I had. He wanted a half page?

And had he just called me honey?

Hutchings was getting impatient. "Liz, come on, we're counting on you. Didn't you follow up on your leads? What happened?"

"I followed my leads as far as they brought me," I defended. "But they were dead ends."

Hutchings seemed angry. "I don't want to hear that phrase, 'dead end'. There must be something that you can tell me."

I desperately searched my mind for anything else, anything that wasn't in my notes.

"The woman's daughter saw the whole thing," I said, "but it appears the family doesn't want to be found right about now. The police probably want them to lie low until the trial."

"Her daughter saw the whole thing? And the cops are keeping that quiet," Hutchings mused.

I commented, "Probably for her own protection."

He nodded his head. "Yea, probably got a couple of cops babysitting her. So, Liz, what do you think we can use to make up the rest of the half-page?"

Thinking for a moment, I offered, "How about a photo or two?"

A odd tone came into his voice. "Photos? Hmmm, yea, we could use photos. Thanks Liz, we have our page three piece for tomorrow."

I finally felt safe enough to exhale the breath I had been holding. I thanked Hutchings for giving me this opportunity to get into print. Then I left the news floor with as much haste as I could reasonably muster.

That was one night I could hardly wait to get to some sleep.


	4. The Mistakes We Make, chapter 4

Chapter notes: I think I'm back to writing. It's been five years, and I don't really know what happened, but I might be back.

You see, I ran off and worked as a book editor for a couple of years. I was good at the job and even better at the politics, but everyone has skeletons, and sometimes even the best politicos become tired of the game. So events that I can't talk about cascaded and I was drummed out of the editing business. Such is life.

And again, my eternal thanks to _my_ editor in this endeavour, Svartormr. Your skill, especially in your role as military advisor, is irreplaceable. Maybe, someday, things won't just work out for our characters.

And, as always, CSI and its characters are not my property, but that of a number of groups, such as Jerry Bruckheimer Productions, Alliance/Atlantis, CBS, etc. No infringement is intended.

- - -

**The Mistakes We Make**

**Chapter 4**

- - -

Come morning, I'd nearly forgotten the turmoil of the night previous. Until the newspaper hit the floor in front of my door with a slap. Pulling on a housecoat, I opened the door and bent over to retrieve the paper. Just as my fingers touched the fold, my neighbour's door creaked open. I wondered if she was watching for me, through the peephole.

"So I see that handsome man friend of yours stayed the night," she observed, her dry and scratching voice as grating as ever.

"I don't see how that's any business of yours," I said.

She laughed.

With a glimmer in her eye, she said, "I did have six children of my own, so I think I know how that works. Though I'm sure you have things well in hand. If you need any more advice, drop by for coffee sometime."

I was mortified, but at the same time it felt good to learn that, the other night, my neighbor was really expressing her wicked sense of humour.

She paused for a second before saying, "You're Liz Holden, right? The writer?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I saw your piece in the Chronicle last week. I thought it was well-written. A little stuffy, but very tight. When you get to be my age, you don't want anyone dicking around with extraneous words. There's not enough time left!" She laughed.

I laughed with her, over and over, the knot in my gut releasing just a little bit with each breath.

"Do you have anything in today's paper?" she asked.

I sighed, and the knot tightened again.

"Yes, but I fought with my editor over it, so it's not a piece I have a lot of good feelings about. I'll have to read it at some point today, but I know it's going to put me in a bad mood, so I'm kind of holding off."

"That's how I feel when my sister sends me letters. Sometimes I wait for days before opening them, but they kind of loom in the meantime. Maybe you should just get it over with, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Having six kids, that's the other thing I have a lot of experience with."

"What's your name?" I finally ask.

"Dorothy. I clicked my heels and ended up in Las Vegas."

"Nice. Well, next time I see you I'll tell you if I'm still in avoidance mode," I said with a smile.

Dorothy smiled back and waved at me, before stepping back inside her apartment.

The phone rang the instant I had chained the door behind me. Picking it up, it was Hutchings.

"Liz, great work last night," he said.

I was mildly suspicious. "You're just buttering me up for something, I can feel it," I said, half-jokingly.

He paused. "That may be true. Liz, honey, I need you to do an interview with the surviving witness."

Hoping to turn the tables, I said, "Hutch . . . you _know_ that can't happen. She's in too much danger already, without us exposing her to public view. Anything could happen. That's why I couldn't mention her in the story I submitted yesterday. Do you understand?"

"Liz, you're overreacting and overestimating the danger. People testify all over our fair city every day, and they all wake up the next day to live their lives. By and large everyone understands that no one really wants to go to court and testify, and that killing a witness is a poor way of getting away with a lesser crime."

I was growing angry. "Hutch, that's bull and you know it. There is a real danger to this girl, and I'm exercising my prerogative to refuse this assignment."

He sighed. "I wasn't asking, Liz. Get out there and do it or don't ever show your face in my newsroom again."

At that, Hutchings hung up on me. I was more confused than angry, but both emotions were twirling in my mind and worked to rebuild the knot in my gut.

I stepped out and sat on my balcony and stared across the land, towards Black Mountain, past the beauty of the barren soil to the sky beyond. I always looked to the unspoiled parts of the earth when my soul needed soothing, and that day it certainly did. I thought of the last time I slowly shuffled my way across the sharp stones at the base of the McCullough Mountains, the last time I had felt this lost, and I made a decision. Life is too short to waste it on the things that bring us pain.

I started making calls that day, and two days later, I had returned to my regular gig of freelance magazine articles. I even had a line on ghostwriting a very short autobiography for far too much money. I'd had my fill of the newspaper business and I wanted to forget my experience as soon as possible. That was rather simple, considering I had a distraction or two. Things were progressing easily with Jim. He had that night off and this time we did go to his house.

It was one of those ubiquitous Las Vegas bungalows, at least with siding instead of stucco. It had a postage-stamp front yard with grass and some shrubbery, but between the house and the detached garage, I could see a beautifully xeriscaped back yard, all desert plants, cacti, and a surprising abundance of flowering plants, though with some traditional grass in the middle.

"This is a gorgeous lawn, Jim. You didn't do this yourself, did you?"

"I did," he said, "but let me tell you how pissed I was when, the very next year, the water authority started offering that subsidy. It wouldn't have been that much money, but still, it's the principle of the thing. At least it's made it easier to deal with my neighbours."

I looked around and saw that his was the only lawn on the street done in anything other than traditional lawn grass. And even though it was early afternoon, two sprinklers were running, and water spilled over the sidewalk. I realized this fit perfectly into the larger puzzle that was Jim Brass, the man who doesn't give a shit what others think when he knows he's doing the right thing.

"Anyway, I'm sorry about us having to order in," he said as we walked up the steps, "I just don't eat at home very often these days. I really should go grocery shopping soon."

I hardly minded. This was an opportunity to find out more about him from the clues we all leave in our abodes. At the moment, however, the clues only raised more questions. Such as why, as a single man, he kept an entire house to himself. Also, as we walked into the cool interior, I wondered why there were there few photographs on the walls. In the end, those questions didn't interest me as much as pondering what we were going to do for all the hours before bedtime.

Nevertheless, he did have a point on the lack of groceries. I suggested, "Maybe we should go out and pick up a few things later, if we're going to have anything to eat for breakfast."

He smiled devilishly at me.

"I'm glad you're staying the night," he said. "I haven't looked forward to a day off like this in ages."

"Well, considering how much you love your job, that may have something to do with it," I said. I then smiled in sympathy. "I'm lucky that I seem to do pretty well with the writing. The royalties are never enough to live on, but I've made a few good decisions along the way and I seem to do all right, financially. Because I wouldn't trade my lifestyle for anything."

He looked at me and smiled.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked.

"You haven't given me the grand tour," I said.

He caught my gaze then shrugged. "Sure. This way," he said as he touched my elbow and guided me into the living room.

"Well . . . this is the living room," he deadpanned.

"That's informative," I said, though with a smirk.

He looked at me and said, "Well, what do you want to know? That's a couch, I sit on it, that's a TV, I watch it, this is a living room, I do some of my living in it. Though not as much as I'd like. No rest for the wicked."

That earned poor Jim a jab in the ribs.

"All right! All right! As you can see, I like movies, and as we move into the kitchen, you can see that I like food, but what you can't see is that I actually like cooking, but I can never really find the time. As we go down the hallway," again, he touched my elbow to lead me in that direction, "there's my office, there's the bathroom, and there's the bedroom—but I'll give you the in-depth tour of that later."

I giggled, but at the same time, I wasn't entirely willing to wait until later with nothing to tide me over, so I leaned back against the doorframe and pulled Jim to me. I kissed him deeply on the lips and he responded, sliding one arm up the doorframe behind me and the other around my waist.

"Liz," he gasped as he broke off the kiss to catch his breath, "is that a request for now, or a promise for later?"

I giggled. "It can't be both?"

He groaned in mock dread and said, "At my age? You're lucky you're getting the once."

"I never had any doubt," I said.

He smiled at me.

Still, curiosity dictated that I at least let my gaze linger around the room a little. Jim's room had a sturdy-looking queen-sized bed, two tall bookshelves, and a wardrobe all finished in similar dark chestnut colours. I couldn't see what most of the titles were on bookshelves, but I did see one thing that piqued my interest.

"Are those photo albums?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Why?"

I walked over and picked them off the shelf and laid them on his bed. I sat down next to them and started looking through the first album. In the upper-left-hand corner of the first page was a picture from the eighties of Jim, a woman I supposed was his ex-wife, and their baby, Ellie. Only not their baby. Which was all the more heartbreaking, because he looked so unreservedly happy.

"Do you really have to look at those?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I'll stop if it makes you uncomfortable."

He walked up beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. "No, it's fine." He then sat on the bed with his back against the headboard and motioned me towards him. "Well, it's going to be difficult for me to tell you what you're looking at if I can't see the pictures. Come over here." I slid across the bed and sat between his legs, my back leaning comfortably against his chest, and I opened that album again.

"These were from when Ellie was first born," he said.

"You looked so happy . . ." I replied.

"Well . . . I was. I really was, for a while."

Flipping forward there were more of Ellie, some of his parents, then his parents and Ellie, and they seemed to be arranged in chronological order. Jim put his hands on my shoulders and gently stroked my skin with his thumbs as I looked at photos of Ellie as a very blonde, very cute toddler, including one in which she was running through the grass towards his outstretched arms, a look of exhilarated joy on her face.

"Jim, these are really great. I mean it," I said.

"Nancy was a great photographer. She still would be, I'm sure, but she just gave it up. But that's who she is," he said, with a sigh.

I said, "My ex was the same way."

I flipped forward and forward again, through a time-lapse rendition of Jim's life on the other side of the continent, until I reached the end—well, the last page with photos. Then it abruptly ended, leaving only blank pages beyond. I reached for the next album and flipped it open. Jim stilled.

"These are older," he said, but I could already tell. None were in colour, that I could see, and the sizes and cuts of the borders reminded me of the earliest photos of myself. The first one was slightly blurry, but was of two boys, about five years old, wearing only shorts and with their rounded chests and bellies thrust forward defiantly, their hands on their hips.

I pointed at the one I guessed was him, the one with the frown, and said, "Didn't your mother tell you if you made faces, your face would stay that way?"

"Lucky guess," he said, with a laugh. "That's the earliest photo I have. The other little guy was my best friend growing up. Kevin."

I thought nothing of it and continued on. I saw a few more childhood pictures, then some of him as a teenager, including a particularly striking one of him sitting on a bench outside a warehouse. He was wearing an apron that was stained with something that looked like blood and a tight, white T-shirt and white slacks. He was hunched over, legs apart with one foot perched on an empty food can. One hand held a cigarette to his lips as his eyes stared off into the distance.

"That was my last summer break. The next year I graduated high school. I worked in a slaughterhouse. I only smoked because I couldn't stand the constant smell of blood." He paused. "Really."

I smiled a little and asked, "Ever read _The Jungle_?"

"I love Upton Sinclair," he said.

Looking back at the album, I saw another photo after that with him and another young man whom I had seen in a few of the photos.

"Is that Kevin?" I asked.

He said it was.

"Do you two keep in touch?"

He shook his head, and though I couldn't see it, I could feel his answer. I wondered why they didn't, but then Jim didn't seem to keep in touch with anyone. I turned the page.

And there was Vietnam.

"What branch were you in?" I asked.

"The Marines," he said, quickly—almost automatically.

I thought about it for a moment before asking, "You were drafted?"

"No. I enlisted." He sat there, silently, for a moment, before going on. "Most of us enlisted. Kevin and I decided that, after we graduated from high school, we'd walk on down to the recruiting office and join up. That picture of me in a patrol cap was taken by him at Parris Island." He pointed to one with him standing tall, hands clasped behind his back and his feet shoulder width apart, looking right at the camera, with a hat like a ball cap, pulled low over his eyes. "And that one," he said, pointing at a group shot of five Marines with smiles across their faces, huddled together, "I took. It's at Camp Lejeune during our MOS training."

"MOS?"

"Military Occupational Specialty. We were riflemen. The quintessential Vietnam experience," he said, sardonically.

I reached up and took both of the hands that were still resting on my shoulders and pulled his arms across my body. I looked at the rest of the photos on that page, but I couldn't really concentrate on them. They were just snapshots of young men in camouflage, sitting around somewhere tropical.

It could have been anywhere, really. But it was _there_.

He increased the pressure across my abdomen in a small hug.

"It's all right, really. I even went back for a second tour," he said, with a small but not very humorous laugh. "Patriotism . . . I sometimes wonder if it's a young man's game. Like there should be some other word for it for us old fogeys. One that people don't have to keep wiping the blood off of."

"Why did you do it? Enlist, I mean."

"My country was at war. I had—have this thing, a belief maybe, or like a feeling. Something . . . anyway, I couldn't not support my country." Jim took a breath, then continued. "Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind was that the New Jersey economy was crap and was just going to keep getting worse. Maybe I knew I needed some way to pay for a college education if I was going to get anywhere. I could have just been looking for excitement. I doubt it was any one thing."

I sensed there was something else he wasn't telling me, so I pressed on. "Why didn't you keep in touch with Kevin? What happened?"

I wasn't sure if I'd made a mistake in asking, because Jim drew a deep breath and then was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he said, "He died. He got shot in the leg and he died."

I mentally kicked myself for being so nosey. What right did I have to dredge up bad memories? And yet, I couldn't stop myself.

"Were you there?" I asked.

He drew another breath and said, "Yeah. Kevin and I did everything we could to try to get into the same company, and we had the dumb luck to end up in the same squad. We were trying to ford this ridiculous fucking marsh that we had no business trying to wade through when we came under fire. Kevin's section was trying to set up the machine gun in that mess and his section commander, for whatever reason, was climbing over an embankment to them with a spare barrel when he got hit. Kevin jumped up on the embankment to try to get to him, when he got a rifle round in the leg.

"I was looking right at him and I saw this spray of blood and bone come out of his leg and it just folded and he fell into the water. I waded over as fast as I could, but by the time I got there, the water was already red with blood. People just bleed out so fast in the heat. One of the guys from his fireteam tried to prop him up and I put my hand on the wound to try to stop the bleeding, but it just kept pouring through my fingers. I couldn't stop it. And that was it. He looked at me, said 'Jimmy,' and his head fell back."

I had tears in my eyes, and when I turned around, he did, too.

"After the firefight, I carried him all the way to the evac point. He just seemed like such a little guy without any life in him. I laid him down on a bodybag and watched as the corpsman zipped him in, then I said a little prayer and walked away.

"I was numb for days, taking dumb chances. I was just angry and there was no reasoning with me. But it went away when I almost got hit, hiding behind this tree. A round hit the trunk and I got sprayed with bits of wood and I realized I'd been about two inches from dying. That dragged me back to reality pretty quickly."

"Ever since then, I've realized that even one second's worth of dumb decisions can cause you to lose it all. Kevin should have known better. We'd been in country for eight months and he was a lance corporal and I was a PFC, so we should have known better, but as with anything important in life, it's one mistake and you lose all the marbles."

I knew I would have to ask at some point, so I went ahead with the next question. "You said you served two tours."

"Yeah. I knew how it was, and I didn't want the new guys going in there blind, without experienced soldiers with them. And in a strange way, when you get home, it's like you've forgotten the rules of real life. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable at home. I'd lie awake at night and think to myself of all the mistakes I'd made over there and how many times those mistakes could have killed me and I thought that if I could tell one person not to do the boneheaded stuff I did, then it would be justified for me to go back. So I went."

"Yeah," I said, "you only get one chance in life, and there aren't really any recoverable mistakes, are there?"

"There aren't many."

"How did you go from being a Marine to being a cop?" I asked.

He thought for long time before answering.

"That place showed me that darkness is carried in men's hearts, so it lives everywhere. So when I got back, it was like I had this secret, this thing that only I knew that I didn't want anyone to know I even knew," he said, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. Then, louder he said, "So after I used my GI Bill to go to college, it's like I wanted to keep the dark somewhere where I could see it, you know?"

I nodded and he tried to change the subject. "Anyway, are we done looking at . . ."

But I interrupted him with a kiss. I held his head to mine; he wasn't fighting the kiss, but he hadn't fully committed to it, either.

I said, "Let me put the albums away."

Without waiting for a reply, I gathered them up, slid off the bed, and put them back on the shelf. I looked at Jim, who was still sitting on his bed. I felt such a depth of emotion for him. This man, who had tried so hard to protect other people. And yet, like all of us, his history was dotted with mistakes. I was resolute that I would never give him cause to think he had made a mistake in letting me into his life.

Looking into his eyes, I undid the first three buttons of my blouse, then climbed onto the bed, crawling over his reclining form without making significant contact until I lowered my lips to his. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth to bring me closer by those essential fractions, before bringing his hands up behind me to pull me on top of him.

He held me against his body as he kissed my lips and then my cheek, back to my lips, then down my neck. I let him roll me onto my back and he continued kissing me further down and then between my breasts. I reached down and undid the button on his jeans, but he stopped me before I could do any more.

"I want to take my time with you," he said. "I'm sorry about last time, that I was so . . ."

"Emotional?" I ventured.

"That's one way of putting it," he said. "But please, let's not get carried away this time."

I rubbed the front of his jeans firmly as I asked, "Not even a little bit?"

"Not until later, okay?" he asked, a little breathlessly.

So he took his time, touching and caressing me and exploring my body, and allowing me to do the same to his. When he finally slid inside my eager and aching body, I looked up at him and rocked with him, feeling that this was a man I might already love. I was filled with so many feelings at that moment that I wanted to cry, there in his loving arms, but my joy blocked the formation of any tears.

Soon I cried out something incomprehensible, I'm sure, with the exception of Jim's name, over and over again. And when he came, he did the same.

Curled up on our sides, I draped myself over him and we were quiet for a time, letting our gentle fingers do any communicating for us. But finally I had to ask a question that had been sitting, waiting for an opportunity to come out.

"Jim, do you think we might work out? As a couple? Because I'm fairly certain I'm falling very hard for you, and I want to make sure you feel the same."

He chuckled and, not for the first time, I heard the delicious reverberations rumbling through his chest. "You even have to ask? Liz, if this was any better I'd drop dead from happiness. Imagine the medical examiner trying to figure that one out!"

He laughed, and I laughed along with him.

"Well then, now that that's settled," I said, "when do we order supper?"

Shaking his head, he gestured under his nightstand. "The phonebook's under there. Order whatever you'd like."

I giggled and stood up, giving him a complete view of my naked body. "It seems that sex makes you very compliant. Masala murghi it is!"

He rolled his eyes. "Can we not? How about something simple, like pizza?"

"Pizza it is!" I said, with a laugh.

After I'd ordered and we'd dressed, Jim poured us both iced teas and invited me out to sit on one of the loungers in his back yard. I gladly accepted and our conversation turned to current events: the congressional elections, the continuing Iraqi disarmament crisis, the Beltway sniper attacks, and others. We didn't always agree, but Jim could keep an amazingly cool head when discussing hot-button issues. But I guess once you've had a gun or two shoved in your face, you gain some perspective.

Then, too soon, the doorbell rang.

"Must be the food," Jim said, as he stood up. He walked over to the driveway and I followed him as he walked past the garage and up the driveway to reach the front door. He briefly hesitated when he saw a large, black Chevrolet Tahoe on the street, instead of some tiny delivery car, but he pressed ahead. I turned the corner only a few seconds after—only to see a tall, slightly heavyset man with curly hair looking intently at Jim. Something was familiar about him.

Jim broke into a smile. "Gil! Good to see you. I finally get to introduce you to Liz." They were friends—and Jim had told him about me.

But the newcomer's face was dark. "Jim, sorry to interrupt you on your day off. Hello, Liz. Jim, I've just talked to O'Reilly. There's been a development in one of your cases—a difficult one."

The darkness spread to Jim. "What? Excuse us Liz, please?"

Jim and his friend moved off. Gil—and then I placed him. He had been at the Cadden murder scene, with the police.

Jim came back. "I'm sorry Liz, but a witness in one of my cases has been found dead. It's very serious, and I have to go. I'll make it up to you." He fumbled in his pocket and handed me two twenties. "Just wait for the pizza and lock the handle behind you. Is that okay?"

I saw the concern in his eyes. "It's all right Jim, I understand."

He ducked inside the house and returned with a change of clothes draped over his arm. Jim gave me a peck on the cheek, then sighed. "It's going to be bad. It's a little girl. Thanks, Liz. See you soon."

Then he disappeared into Gil's Tahoe.

A little girl?

I wasn't sure, but I had to know. I left the twenties half-sticking out of the mailbox, grabbed my purse and keys, and followed in my car.


End file.
